


Deeply Drinking, Quench Thy Thirst

by DachOsmin



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Betrayal, Drugged Sex, Forced Orgasm, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, POV First Person, Rape to Maintain Cover, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Sibling Incest, Succubi & Incubi, implied father/son incest, nonconsensual blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24566884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Lord Raith offers Harry to Thomas as a gift, bound and naked. And if either Thomas or Harry are going to survive, it's a gift Thomas has to accept.
Relationships: Harry Dresden/Thomas Raith
Comments: 16
Kudos: 93
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Deeply Drinking, Quench Thy Thirst

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lolahaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolahaze/gifts).



> This is meant to take place prior to Blood Rites; Harry doesn't know Thomas is his brother yet.

I got the call from Lara just after sundown on a blustery evening in October. I was standing in my kitchen next to the open freezer trying to decide between macaroni and Swedish meatballs when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I didn’t give it much thought; I figured it was that guy from the club, or that girl from the party, or maybe my dry-cleaner. I fished the phone out one handed and glanced at the lit display. Saw the caller ID.

I blinked. Swallowed. Put the TV dinners back and shut the freezer door before accepting the call. “Lara. Good to hear from you.”

Lara didn’t bother with a greeting, which was a bad sign. “Father requests your presence at the estate tonight.” That was several bad signs, trussed up in white ribbons. The thread of warning in Lara’s voice said she knew it too.

I took a deep breath and let all the questions go, became the dumbest version of myself. A meeting with my father, the head of the White Court. A man that could snuff my life out with a snap of his fingers, a man that might even now be planning on doing just that. I cradled the phone with my shoulder and hummed into the receiver. “What should I wear?”

“Honestly, Thomas.” I couldn’t tell if the exasperation in Lara’s voice was genuine or not. “Be here by nine.” The line clicked off.

I set the phone down and leaned back against the refrigerator. I afforded myself a moment of pity before stalking into the bedroom to get dressed for a night out with good old dad.

I picked my clothes carefully, because it’s what dumb Thomas would do and I’m something of a method actor.

Pants first. I rifled through my armoire, focusing on the texture of the threads beneath my fingers, the match and clash of patterns, the shine of silk and leather under the light. Anything to avoid those lurking thoughts.

It had been a long time, after all. He hadn’t called for me in ages.

I shifted my feet, digging through the pile of belts on my closet floor. The white leather would look good with the Balenciaga.

Perhaps he just wanted to talk. I was his son, after all.

Which shirt to wear? Maybe the Versace? But it had a red clasp at the neck, and I didn’t want to seem too loud, too ambitious, too having-a-mind-of-my-own…

I was his son. He’d killed the rest of his sons.

I snarled, tearing through the pile of clothes on the floor, snagging one shirt on the door handle and ripping the silk in two at the armhole. The sound stopped me, and I was suddenly aware of myself, panting amidst the wreckage of my wardrobe, surrounded by scraps of fabric worth thousands of dollars, strewn about like rags.

Because the clothes were worthless. Because no matter what I wore or didn’t wear, Lord Raith could end my life as easily as he could dash a wineglass into shattered pieces on the floor, with even fewer consequences. Because there was nothing I could do to stop him.

I let out a shaky breath. The Valentino would have to do.

***

Nine p.m. saw me on the steps of my father’s mansion, knocking on the heavy front door. I waited for a moment in the cold before Lara opened it. She was frowning.

“You’re almost late.”

I bit back my first response, which was that “almost late” really just meant “on time” to most people. Instead, I put on my best vapid idiot smile and tried to give the impression that my two last brain cells were desperately seeking each other out. “I believe Lord Raith is expecting me in his study?”

Lara didn’t buy the act, but she never had. “He’s not in the study.”

A chill ran down my spine. I forced a lazy smile. “Not in the studying mood, is he?”

“He’s in the parlor.”

 _Parlor._ It was such an innocuous little word. I doubted many people would be scared by talk of a parlor. But then again, not many people had the father I had.

His parlor was where he fed, where he’d sucked the life out of all of his other sons and daughters. I knew it, and Lara knew it.

“Ah,” I said. “Well. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Lara gave me a curt nod. There was a warning in her eyes, a presage that something terrible was going to happen. I figured she thought my time was up, and I was oddly touched that it seemed like she cared.

I gave her a lazy wave and headed inside, my footsteps echoing off the white marble of the flooring as I thought about the ones that had made this walk before me, decades and centuries ago.

After all, I’d had other brothers once. I only had one now, and empty night willing, my father would never find out about Harry Dresden.

***

For all I wished the walk would go on forever, I made it to the parlor in short order. I stepped inside, head bowed. The room seemed both warmer and colder than the hallway outside: there was a fire going in the fireplace, but it did nothing to warm the cold white marble of the floor.

He was waiting in the center of the room, lounging on a white velvet settee. Everything about him, from the wineglass drooping in his hand to the sprawl of his legs, gave off a languid, indolent air. I knew better though. A viper looks still enough, before it springs.

I stepped closer, and knelt carefully at the foot of the settee. I didn’t dare meet his eyes but I could feel them all the same, burning into me like a brand. “Father,” I murmured.

“Thomas.” His voice was a purr. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

I thought frantically through everything I’d done recently. What had it been? What had tipped him off? “My lord, I—"

“Hush, Thomas,” he said. “We have a visitor.”

The door on the far side of the parlor creaked open in the wake of his words. There were shuffling sounds, and muffled swearing. I kept my head down, staring at the patterns in the marble, heart hammering in my throat. I winced at the sound of someone falling to the floor, accompanied by a cut-off curse. The curse—the voice—I knew that voice—

I jerked my head up, hoping against hope that I had heard wrong, that it wasn’t who I thought it was—

But when I looked up, I saw him. My worst fear made flesh. Harry.

He was bound and naked. The ropes were white silk, tied shibari style. Four ropes looped around his neck, binding his hands behind his back and his ankles together, his legs lewdly pulled apart. His skin was an angry pink beneath the tension of the ropes; he must have struggled. It made the silk seem all the whiter.

Some far away part of me noted that he was a was a work of art like this; my father must have brought in one of the experts he kept on retainer to do the knots. His cock was still soft, but the rope worker had threaded two lines of silk around his shaft, dotted with small knots that would rub and slide as he struggled. Not that the stimulation would be necessary for his arousal, once all was said and done. Once he’d been fed on.

It hadn’t happened yet; he was still wholly himself. I saw the rage simmering in his eyes and the clench of a jaw and wondered how they’d managed to get him tied up like this. At gunpoint, probably.

He still hadn’t noticed me, and I realized I was holding my breath, hoping he never would, hoping I’d never have to face him—but then he scanned the room and I saw it, the moment his eyes caught on me and widened in recognition. I could almost see the wheels turning: confusion at first, and then realization that I must have betrayed him somehow, and then I felt the full force of his anger turn on me like a wave. “Thomas,” he snarled. “I should have guessed.”

The ropes were so white against his skin. I licked my lips. Turned to my father, because if I kept looking at Harry I was going to start screaming. I bowed my head again before speaking, the very picture of filial piety. “This is a surprise, my lord.”

My father arched a single elegant brow. “Is it? You know him.”

“In passing.” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

My father picked up a hand, examined the perfect white ovals of his nails. “I’ve heard reports that you… desire him.”

I wanted to laugh or cry; I couldn’t pick. Of course my father assumed that any interest on my part towards Harry had to be about sex. It couldn’t be anything else.

It _couldn’t_ be anything else, I realized with a coldly growing dread. Because if it was, because if my father had even the faintest suspicion of the real reason I was protecting Harry, he’d be dead before I could stand up.

Heart hammering, I offered up an indifferent shrug. “I suppose he’s handsome enough,” I said. “In a brutish sort of way, at least.”

Harry growled, opened his mouth to say something—but he never got the chance.

My father moved so fast even I could barely see him, the tip of his silver cane blurring through the air to strike Harry across the jaw, dashing him onto the floor. Harry’s head went back with an audible crack and I had a glimpse of a bright line of blood on his cheek before he doubled over in pain. I could hear his silent gasps, see his pain in the way his fingers spasmed against the white marble.

I held myself frozen, terrified that my father would follow up with another blow, tear him apart while I watched, helpless. But at length he shrugged, and the panicked relief felt like a dam breaking in my chest. “I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

I forced a smile. “Too true, my lord.”

Harry glared up at me from the floor. “All that shit about being on my side, that was a lie, huh?”

 _Shut up, Harry,_ I wanted to scream. _For once in your life, shut up._

Blessedly, my father ignored him this time. “You haven’t fed on him.”

“No, my lord,” I said, ducking my head. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble with the wizards.”

“Politics, Thomas?” His voice was deceptively light.

Empty night, conversations with him always felt like walking through a minefield. “No,” I said, blinking in feigned confusion. “It just seemed like the sort of thing I shouldn’t do without my lord’s leave.”

The words hung in the air for my father to consider as I hoped against hope that he would believe me, or at least not care enough to press further. Would he buy it?

And then, like an exhale, the moment broke. He waved a hand down at Harry, every inch the magnanimous benefactor. “Not to worry. Feed. I give you my leave. Any trouble with the wizards, I will handle."

Hardly daring to breathe I nodded, too frantic by half but not caring. “Of-of course my lord. I will take him to my room—"

“No need for that. Or,” he offered me a small curve of a smile, “are my chambers not to your liking?”

I paused. “Of course they are, my lord,” I said carefully. “But I wouldn’t want to sully—"

“I give you my leave,” he said, and this time there was steel in his voice. “Please. Go ahead.”

I turned back to Harry, my heart pounding in my ears.

He was beautiful. I’d always known that, and hated that I’d known it. My demon hadn’t let me forget it.

The white silk of the ropes was a stunning contrast against his skin, and his skin was an angry red where he’s struggled against his bindings. The line of blood from my father’s blow glittered like rubies against the flush of his cheek.

He looked delicious.

Because of course, that was the tragedy of it all: my father was a monster, but so was I. He was my brother and I wanted him. He was looking at me now with nothing but fear, broken trust, and black hatred in his eyes—and still, I wanted him.

And the worst part was, he could tell.

He spat on the floor. “Gonna do what Daddy says? Family first, huh?”

If only he knew, I thought to myself, on the edge of hysteria. I had to do this, for him. To save him.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to enjoy it.

Would Margaret excuse me this? Mother, forgive me. _Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa._

I reached out to stroke a finger down Harry’s cheek. He jerked away like a trapped animal struggling against its captivity. Empty night, but it set my blood on fire.

“It’s nothing personal,” I said. A lie.

“I trusted you,” he spat.

“You shouldn’t have.” Not a lie.

“If his tongue offends you,” my father said mildly, “I’m happy to cut it out.”

“No,” I said. “I have other things in mind for it.”

Before Harry could make things worse, I hooked a finger around the ropes binding his neck and hauled him into my lap. He came choking, his neck spasming as he fell against me. He couldn’t speak, of course, but he didn’t need to: the rage in his eyes was enough.

I didn’t give him a chance to catch his breath. I yanked on the ropes again, pulling him closer, until our mouths met. He tried to recoil but I didn’t let him, bringing my other hand up to cradle the back of his head and crush our mouths together.

I could taste the fury on him, and the fear. He fought it, of course he did—Harry has never _not_ fought anything in his life. He seethed against me, bit at my lip hard enough to break the skin.

It was a dumb thing to do; all he was doing was getting my pheromones into his bloodstream faster. And even if he bit me to death, what did he think he was going to do with my father and the rest of the household? Better to submit and live to fight another day. I’d learned that lesson, empty night, had I learned it. But maybe Harry never had.

I pulled away as he tried to catch my tongue between his teeth, licked the blood onto my lips and planted a savage kiss on his cheek. The bloody mark it left looked like a claim.

“Relax and let yourself enjoy it,” I said, stroking my fingers through his hair.

“I’m not going to enjoy it," he hissed, his voice hoarse.

“You don’t have a choice,” I said.

He looked at me, confused. And then he wobbled slightly, and his eyes widened in wounded horror.

He hadn’t realized: the thought was a sick thrill beneath the tide of my lust. What I was going to do to him. What I was going to reduce him to. He’d be a mewling whore by the end, begging for my touch, and he’d like it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe it would have been kinder if he hadn’t known.

Sick to my stomach and more turned on than I’d been in weeks, I pulled him back into another kiss.

This time he held his lips firm together, but I pressed them open with the force of my tongue. I shoved my way into his mouth, claiming it, biting at his lips, hands knotted in his hair so he couldn’t pull away. He tried to turn his head to either side, but I held his head in place and kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

I felt it, the moment the compounds in my saliva began to work on him. Second by second, the fight leached out of him. I kissed him through it, held him up when he began to sag against me, the fight gone out of him.

When I pulled back, he was staring at me, eyes blown wide with lust. “Thomas?” he stammered, looking up at me uncertainly. “What—"

“Shh,” I murmured, and kissed him again, chastely this time, barely more than a brush of my lips against the side of his mouth. “I’ve got you.”

“This is all very touching, Thomas,” my father said, sotto voce. “But I don’t have all day.”

I tucked Harry’s head against my chest so that I could hear his minute whimpers and plastered a smile onto my face. “How would you like me to take him, my lord?”

My father tilted his head, considering. “Your mouth will do nicely, for now.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My mouth was good; there was less of a chance of hurting him if I sucked him instead of fucked him. The fact that my demon loved the thought of him begging and writhing beneath me as I drank his pleasure down had nothing to do with it. Absolutely nothing at all.

Swallowing, I pushed Harry out of my lap and pressed him down onto the floor. He looked obscene, legs pulled wide by the ropes, cock already plump and red where it lay against his stomach. He was good and drugged by now; I could tell by the way his mouth hung open as he panted, and by the way he was rutting up into the air in little jerks, unconsciously looking for stimulation on his cock. I let myself admire the tableau for half a second, my own cock hardening in my pants at the sight of him undone like this.

And then I leaned down and took the head of his cock in my mouth.

His response was beautiful. His lips, already spit-sheened and red fell open, and he let out a low moan as he trembled in his bindings. “Thomas,” he slurred. His eyes were dazed, the pupils huge and dark as he stared up at me. Every part of him screamed lust, and it made my blood stir like nothing else.

I toyed with his slit with my tongue, letting him feel the slightest hint of my teeth on the sensitive skin just below the head. He gasped at that, and the sound went straight to my own cock.

I suckled harder, bringing my hands up to play with the pretty knots in his bindings, tugging at them so that they rubbed against the base of his cock whenever he moved, driving hoarse gasps from him.

Before long he was crying, his eyes wrenched shut, tears glistening beneath the fall of his lashes. “Thomas, Thomas—” he mumbled, as if my name were the only word he knew.

“Beg me for it,” I murmured, drunk on the desperation in his voice.

“Please,” he cried, his voice breaking into a shivering whisper. “Please, I need it, I need it, I need—"

I didn’t make him wait any longer. I took his full length in my mouth and swallowed around him hard, taking him to the hilt so that my nose was flush against his stomach and I was utterly full with him.

A human might have gagged, but I was a scion of the White Court and this was my art, and so I played him like a fine instrument, wrenching gasps and cries and moans as he shook in his bindings. I worked my tongue and my throat and my hands at him, giving him no mercy and no relief from the pleasure, until he was screaming, back arching like a bow a hairsbreadth from breaking as his cock pulsed in my mouth on and on and on.

The sweetness of his life force and the bitterness of his semen on my tongue—I drank them both down greedily, swallowing compulsively, savoring every last drop. Oh, but he tasted so good. When I’d sucked him dry and his body had no more to give, I pulled my lips from his softening cock and nuzzled at the skin of his inner thigh, drunk on the pleasure of my feeding.

Above me, my father cleared his throat. “Lovely,” he said. “Now: again.”

I blinked, trying to think through the haze of my pleasure. “My lord—”

“It was not a suggestion, Thomas.”

A sick feeling warred with the lust in my stomach. The lust won. I leaned back in, and took Harry in my mouth once more.

He cried out at the first swipe of my tongue, squirming like he wanted to get away, but the bindings held fast. And anyway, there was nowhere for him to go.

“Thomas,” he cried, “please, no, it hurts—”

“You say that, but you’re harder than a whore for me," I crooned, bringing my hands up to tweak at the peaks of his nipples.

I took it slow this time, already satiated with his pleasure. I worked in slow kisses up and down his shaft, gentle lavings of my tongue, the softest bites to the skin of his inner thigh.

All through it, Harry shivered and sobbed beneath me, oversensitive and undone. He didn’t want it, of course he didn’t want it. But his body couldn’t resist it, and so before long he was hard again, his cock a heavy weight on my tongue.

I had no mercy for him: just the same inexorable doling-out of pleasure, until it was too much. He came with a hoarse sob, and my father said “again.”

Sobbing, Harry tried to jerk away from my mouth. I didn’t let him. I kept on licking at him, again and again, drinking him down, drinking my fill, feeding, feeding, feeding.

I could have drunk from him forever. I could have drained every last bit of life for him, sucked him dry, left him a desiccated husk as white as the marble of the floor.

I managed to stop myself. It doesn’t absolve me. It doesn’t mean I’m not a monster. But still—I managed to stop.

I wrenched myself away after his fifth orgasm. By that point he was too oversensitized to make any noise, he just lay there quivering, the occasional whimper or cry breaking from his lips. I yanked my head back and sprawled onto my side, full and indolent and lust-drunk.

I lay there, caught in the spell of fulsome satiation, feeling better than I had in months as the horror of what I had just done slowly washed over me.

Above me, a tsk. My father. I’d forgotten he was even there. “You didn’t kill him,” he observed.

“It seemed a waste,” I whispered.

Silence. It felt like an age. I had no energy left to hope; I just lay there, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“Very well,” he said at last, and if I had still believed god heard me, I would have thanked him. “You may go.”

Nodding, I lifted Harry in my arms, carrying him quickly out of the parlor before my father could change his mind. I carried him to one of the guest rooms. He was asleep or unconscious by then; I couldn’t tell which. I lay him down on the soft silk sheets of the bed, not caring when his blood ruined them. I cut the bindings from his limbs, bandaged his hurts, and rubbed ointment into the places where the ropes had rubbed him raw.

And then I sat in the dark, dreading and praying for the moment when he woke up, and I would have to face him.


End file.
